Michael Flynn - Up Jim River

The third time, the insert loaded up and the harper, with some effort, did not show relief. The judge checked certain fields on the screen against the corresponding fields on the paper copy, pursed her lips; then with a small sigh of annoyance added her own proviso about returning the prisoner once he was no longer needed. She did the same thing by hand to the paper copy, and Méarana initialed and dated the amendment.

Give her anything she wants , Donovan had advised, so long as we leave with the Wildman .

“I wish I knew what this was in aid of,” Judge Trayza said as she handed over the franked warrant and the release form.

Méarana took the paperwork and the brain and shook the judge by the hand. “No. You don’t,” she assured the woman. “There is one dead and one missing already in this affair. The less any of us know, the better.” Make it sound mysterious; make it sound deadly. Make it sound like Judge Trayza Dorrajenfer of the Nest of Boditsya did not want to inquire further.

On the shuttle to Charming Moon, Teodorq Nagarajan sat between Méarana the Harper and Dame Teffna bint Howard. He wore a pair of manacles, courtesy of Josang Prison, and grinned at the stares he received from the other passengers. A great many Boldlys resented his temporary escape from the death sentence. So, too, had the news faces from Alabaster and Sumday. “We came all this distance,” Jwana had complained at the hotel, “and now there’s no story.”

But Nagarajan was content with that. He would rather Novski gripe at his good luck than exult in his bad. He nudged Méarana with an elbow after the shuttle had entered free fall. “I knew you’d come back for me, babe. Just couldn’t let me go to waste.”

“Please,” said Méarana, “don’t make me change my mind.”

Billy regarded the new member of the troupe with some disfavor and, on the crawl to Stranger Station, explained to the Wildman his position in the scheme of things. But Nagarajan took the Terran by the folds of his kurta and lifted him off his feet. “Hey,” he explained, “Teddy don’t take orders from no flunky. Lady Méarana is the boss. Wasn’t no mention of you in the bargain.”

“Dame Teffna” traveled with them on the same bumboat, but Méarana knew that Donovan and the Fudir were already reasserting control, for the Silky Voice grew huskier with each passing day, and from time to time she gasped a little in pain. “I control the androgens and estrogens,” she explained privately at one point, “so I could force them to live as a woman. But they could shut me up in the hypothalamus, and I’d rather not make my body a battleground.”

Teodorq told Méarana that the medallions had come from a world out the Wilderness Road. This surprised her, because Sofwari had last been heard from on Ampayam; but he had been searching for clan-mothers, not medallions, so she told Billy to make reservations for the next ship to Gatmander. Donovan, eavesdropping, did likewise.

The Furious Joy had once been a liner working the Ramage-Valency region; but she had grown old and worn and less attractive to the sort of passengers her owners desired. So a consortium had bought her up and hired a down-at-luck captain to bring her out to Sumday, and the Joy now made the circuit from Gatmander to Sumday to Boldly Go carrying an eclectic mix of passengers and cargo.

Captain Lu-wi dan Fodio made a point of hosting his passengers to “the captain’s dinner” and seating them with his officers on a rotating basis. The fare was plain; the entertainment, recorded. But dan Fodio was sincere and friendly and his officers polite, if a bit distracted by their duties. Yet Méarana thought the meals were in many ways more genuine than the more formal affairs on Gerthru van Ij?bwode . Captain-Professor van Lyang had maintained an aura of dignity. Captain dan Fodio did not. He would roar with laughter whether he was hearing an anecdote for the first time or telling it for the fortieth.

Billy Chins made one attempt to wait table and Méarana ordered him to sit down and act like a passenger. There were seven of them at the table: Second Officer bPadbourne (“the P is silent,” he explained), a shipwright named Weems from Gladiola seeking opportunity on the frontier, a wealthy bummerl named Konzaquince, and a rather more furtive woman who gave the name Patel and said nothing about her purposes. To have Billy Chins stand behind her chair and spoon potatoes and brusselballs onto her plate as if she were some High Taran aristo while Teodorq and the others contested for the serving bowls struck Méarana as ludicrous.

The eighth seat at their table, bPadbourne told them, belonged to a passenger who was ill at present, and remaining in his cabin.

It was Donovan, of course. He appeared on the third day out, his features now restored to their normal appearance. He came up silently behind Billy Chins and clapped a sudden hand on the man’s shoulder. “Well, well,” he said, and Méarana noted how Billy froze in fright on hearing that voice. “I see we’ve picked up a new playmate.”

Nagarajan had pulled his hair back into a tail and wore the sleeveless jerkin that showed off his shoulder tattoos. Without moving his head, his eyes danced from Donovan to Billy, assessing their relationship.

Billy had turned in his chair and, after a moment of demonstrative surprise, embraced Donovan by the waist. “O sahb! Sahb! Such-much joy lukim you!”

Donovan pulled out the empty chair and sat beside him. “Billy,” he said, “my old faithful khitmutgar, how I’ve missed you since you ran out on me.”

“No, sahb. Billy no-never run! But Mistress Harp, she go willy-nilly wanpela tasol…I mean, she go on alone. Billy can no let such happen! Sahb Donovan be angry-angry supposem lady be hurt. So I go with help her. I do your will always, sahb; even you no ask.”

After dinner, the four of them remained at the table and discussed the venture on which their mutual fates had placed them. For Nagarajan’s benefit, Donovan reviewed the mystery of Bridget ban’s disappearance, the evident importance of the medallion that Bridget ban had given her daughter, and the hints contained in the ancient Terran legend of the Treasure Fleet. Something that would “ward the League for aye.” As far as the Wild-man was concerned, League and Confederation meant nothing; but the chance to be immortalized in song was decisive.

“One last item, and maybe the most important,” Donovan concluded, “is the fact-collector Sofwari. Somehow, his work convinced Bridget ban there was more in the old legend than a tall tale. But Sofwari went up the Gansu Corridor and has not come back.”

“It’s not some geegaw we seek,” Méarana reminded him. “‘tis my mother.”

The scarred man shrugged. “Find one, find the other. There is a bare chance the one is still functional.”

“You told me once,” Méarana said, “that all quests fail, and it is only how they fail that matters.”

Donovan’s smile was full of teeth. “I still expect we will fail.”

Billy blinked. “We no find old machine?”

But Donovan shook his head. “It’s the finding of it that might be our failure. Bridget ban sought it, and never returned.”

“All right,” the Wildman said, “I can see yuh need a fighting man, which that’s me. But I like to know who I’m throwing in with. I ain’t no dummy. I got looks, charm, bravery, fighting skill with all sorts of weapons…”

“Humility,” suggested Billy Chins.

“Yeah, that, too, ‘cause I only listed half my sterling qualities. But a man can’t have everything and I don’t claim to be no big brain. Every gang needs a leader, and my inner sense tells me it ain’t Billy here. He strikes me as a sneaky, whiny little bastard. In a fight, yuh can depend on him for the rabbit punch—and I ain’t putting yuh down, yuh Terry wart. Some fights are better won from the back than from the front. Not my style, but we gotta be what we call ‘multitasking’ here. So are yuh the brains here, Donovan?”